The Other People: A Novel(50)

She told me if anything happened to call you.

Why? What had Fran been expecting to happen? Why dye the girl’s hair? And there was another thing: Alice had said “Fran” instead of “Mum” on the phone, and in the park, before she caught herself.

Katie glanced toward the living room, where she could hear Gracie babbling excitedly. Children were much more accepting, Katie thought. Of change, of new people. Which was what made them so vulnerable. Of course, Alice was only a child herself, but there was something about her that unnerved Katie. A sense that her presence here was a risk, to all of them.

She hoped she had made the right decision tonight.

She hoped she hadn’t just invited a cuckoo into their nest.





Maddock walked into the bar, a bag slung over one shoulder, intent on her phone. She didn’t glance up as she sat down at Gabe’s table. Gabe waited. He remembered these power plays from the police interviews. The intention: to make him sweat, wondering what they might have on him, wondering if, even though he knew he was innocent, they might somehow find something to implicate him.

After a few seconds, Maddock hooked the bag over the back of the chair, put down the phone and met his gaze across the table. She didn’t smile. But then, she never did.

“Thanks for meeting me.”

Like he had a choice.

“That’s okay.”

“You look like shit.”

“Getting stabbed will do that to you.”

“Right.”

“Why are you here, apart from the sympathy, obviously?”

“This isn’t strictly an official visit.”

“Oh.”

“So first, I’m going to ask you again—unofficially—where did you get those photographs?”

Gabe stared at her. “Why? Have you found something out?”

“Where did you get the photos, Gabriel?”

He sat back and folded his arms. His side throbbed.

She squared him with a look. “Okay. You know what my average day consists of? Kids stabbing other kids because they wore the wrong trainers on the wrong street. Domestics, some of which we have visited several times, who don’t press charges until it’s too late because we’re dealing with a homicide. Druggies, alcoholics, people with mental health issues who should be in a facility where they can be treated appropriately instead of left to wander the streets until they forget to take their medication, scalp someone with a machete and get put in a police cell.”

“Sounds fun.”

“It’s a ball. But then, sometimes, a case comes along that makes you remember why you wanted to join the force. One that really gets to you. One that worries away at the back of your mind, keeps you awake at night.”

“Like mine.”

“I really wanted to find the person responsible. All along, something about it felt off. I never thought it was a robbery.”

“Which was why you thought I had something to do with it.”

“Nine times out of ten it’s someone the victim knows. But I never liked that anonymous call. Always wondered if there was an accomplice. Maybe one that got cold feet.”

He tried to stop the familiar feeling of anger, grinding his teeth to stop him saying something he might regret.

“Is this going somewhere?”

“Yes. I have a friend who works at the coroner’s office. I was passing, on my way home, so I asked if I could see the files they held on your wife and daughter, including post-mortem photographs.”

She reached into her bag and took out a thick plastic evidence folder. She placed it on the table and then laid her hand over it. “Before we go on, in this unofficial capacity, I want to ask you a few more questions.”

“Okay.”

“How many photographs of your daughter would you say you had at home?”

“Maybe half a dozen, but the ones on the walls were older. We meant to put up some new ones—they change so quickly, but…” He trailed off. But they hadn’t got around to it because it hadn’t seemed urgent, important.

“Do you have any more recent photographs of Izzy?”

“Yes. On my phone.”

“Can I see the most recent?”

Gabe took out his phone and flagged up the photo. His heart tore a little every time he did. It was Izzy at the local park. She was eating an ice lolly and smiling into the camera, squinting slightly.

They didn’t go out very often, just him and Izzy. But Jenny had had a bad cold so he’d offered to take Izzy out for a while so she could rest. It had been unseasonably warm, blue skies, golden sun. Izzy had been excited and chatty.

“Daddy, push me on the swings. Daddy, watch me on the slide. Daddy, look how high I can jump on the trampoline.”

Afterward, they had fed the ducks and then sat outside the small café, Izzy eating the sticky orange lolly that had left splotchy stains on her pink dress. It had been one of those small pockets of perfect. A few precious hours where everything in his world had aligned. He’d realized that he was happy.

And then it was over. He had promised Izzy they would do it again. And of course, they never did. Because stuff—unimportant, inconsequential things—got in the way.

“When was this taken?” Maddock asked.

“Err, there’s a date.” He showed her on the phone.